Three Score and Ten, What Then?

by Peggy Mary E. Smith

  Some of these poor folks aren’t able to do anything anymore. They can’t walk or talk, and they have no control over any of their body functions. They slump over sideways in their chairs, or slide down in them, and then they can’t get back up. Drool runs out of their mouth and onto their clothes or the floor. If their noses need blowing, they can’t ask for a Kleenex. The mucus runs out, down their face, and drips onto whatever surface it finds first: their clothes, the table, or the floor. It’s such a sad thing to have to witness, and I’m sure that they would be humiliated beyond tears if they knew what kind of physical state old age had left them in.”

  “It’s disturbing for me, too, Gran,” Beth states. “It’s heart-wrenching to see so many frail people. It’s a harsh reality, for sure. Unless you work in health care, I don’t think that there’s anything that could totally prepare a person to live in this environment.”

  “I know the nurses do the best they can, Beth,” I continue. “But, as I said, there’s a real shortage of PSWs. They wash and dress those poor souls and put them in reclining Geri chairs with tables on them. Then they park them in the living room. It makes me feel like they’re on display. Some of them bang their tables and holler continuously. That’s pretty annoying to the other residents that are trying to watch TV. All that commotion upsets the ones with dementia, too. It sends them into a tailspin. What a room of chaos that becomes! I’m lucky that I can come to my own room and watch my own TV. Not everyone here has that luxury.

  The biggest adjustment that I had to come to terms with was the fact that I would never be able to go back to my home to live. When I got here in December, I didn’t want to give up the hope, but as the months passed and my arm healed, I knew that, even with the weekly visits from the homecare gal, I wouldn’t be able to manage. Even though I was able to use my arm, I never regained its full movement or strength, and the longer I stayed here, the more I depended on all the help I was getting. I had come to realize that, like it or not, this was the place I needed to be.

  When April rolled around, and the spring weather was upon us, I decided to let Jackie and Jacob go ahead and sell the house. I knew I had to let it go. It was just a burden on them and was sitting idle with no one to love it. It would be no time at all before it would start to deteriorate and depreciate. The time had come, and I had to let it go. I had to make up my mind to settle in here and make the most of it. This would be the setting for my last chapter, and this is where I’ll spend my last days. That is just the way of it. Fate had intervened.”

  caregivers

  “Well, Beth, it took a little time, but I’ve gotten to know most of the staff here. Some of the new gals are still a little unfamiliar to me, but I have all the people that were working here when I came figured out. I know them all by name and know which department they work in. Quite an accomplishment, I figure. That’s a lot of faces to keep track of. Well over a hundred of them, they tell me. That’s quite a crew.

  Of course, I know the nursing staff the best. They’re the ones we primarily see, and they do the caregiving. They are the ones that come to answer our call bells when we ring for help. The troubleshooters, as I call them. They come and help us, or find the right person we need if they can’t do the job. They are the personal support workers (PSW). They used to be called nurse’s aides when I visited with my sister Rose. They’re the real worker bees around here. I think they’re the backbone of this institution.

  Now, I’m not saying the rest of the staff in all the other departments don’t work hard or do their share. The other departments certainly have merit and are required to keep this big house going, too. After all, we need our clothes washed, our rooms cleaned, and our meals prepared and served. The office people have all the money business to take care of. They’re all part of the team, too, and it takes every one of them to look after us, but it’s the PSWs that we have the most contact with. They’re the caregivers, and there are some of them here to help us twenty-four hours a day. They work around the clock.

  I really don’t know how they do it. Day after day they come here with such cheery attitudes and big smiles. It doesn’t matter a lick what you’re needing, they’re ready to lend a hand. Angels, I call them. They must be angels. They’re always friendly and happy, eager and ready for the task at hand. They don’t complain about what you’re needing done. They just get right at it.

  Some of them just seem to have been born for the job, and for most parts, it can’t be easy looking after all us old folks. Everything has to be done for some. It’s like caring for a baby. From washing, dressing, feeding, bathing, right down to changing dirty britches. Everything! And these are adults, not infants. No, that can’t be easy at all.

  I figure that the mental tasks at hand must be as hard as all the physical duties. It must be hard to put aside the purpose of the job. They’re here to care for people who are on their way out. No one who lives here is going to get better and go home. This isn’t a hospital. It’s a home for the aged. This is where we’ll spend our last days. We’re all here to die! Not a nice thought, but it’s the truth just the same.

  No, this isn’t the place to work for the weak at heart or stomach, for that matter. It can’t help but to be trying on their nerves. Some of these old folks are pretty bitter and ungrateful. I know they’re just tired and old, but they could be a little thankful for the kindness that’s offered. Some of these nurses really go all out to help. They couldn’t do anything better. Like I said, they’re angels.

  They have to put up with a lot of abuse, too. The folks with dementia are not always easy to deal with. They yell, swear, and say unkind things. They spit, hit and kick, push and pull, and carry on. I’ve even seen one bite a nurse who was trying to help him. They’re pretty tough to care for. It takes a certain kind of person to do the job.

  I’m fortunate that I don’t need much help anymore since my arm has mended. I like my independence and do for myself as much as possible. My weekly bath is their only designated task in order to help me, and, as one young gal informed me, that was all she could tolerate of me. Of course, she was just joshing. I gave her a dig right back saying it was more than I could tolerate her. We just laughed. Ma used to say that laughter was good medicine. I think she was right.

  I do miss talking to some of the nurses, though. There’s a couple of cute young gals that are my favourites. They always seem to know just how I like things done. They like to joke and laugh. The one gal says they are “B” nurses. She says they look after the beds, bums, and baths. A jovial girl, she is. I sure enjoy having her to help. It seems things go smooth when she’s on duty. She just has a way to keep things flowing, jumps right in, and gets at it. She just has a way about her. You can tell she was born for the job.

  Yes, it’s the PSWs that are our chief caregivers. They’re the ones that tend to our needs. It sure would be better if there were a few more of them to go around. I keep saying that, but it’s the truth. It seems they’re always shorthanded. There just aren’t enough of them at times to do things right. Makes it hard for everyone, them and us. And the nurses that really give it their all feel it most. They get worn down and frustrated. Of course, management, or the mucky mucks as I call them, pass the buck and say it’s due to the lack of government funding. I think it’s the lack of putting government funding in the right place, though, I’m sure a bigger cash flow would make a difference all around.

  I’m sure that if the people who make decisions about staffing stopped and gave it a little thought, they would appreciate the fact that ten to fifteen minutes in the morning wouldn’t be enough time for them to crawl out of bed, go to the washroom, wash, dress, and get gussied up in order to greet the new day. And if they can’t do it, and not feel rushed and frazzled, I’d like to know why those expectations are placed on us old folks. Because, we don’t get any faster with old age, that’s for sure. It just don’t seem right to me. The powers that be should try and correct the situation.

  There a
re some folks living here that are just plain lonesome. They seem to find needless little tasks to have done, just so they can ring their bell. Company is all they really need. Someone to show them a little love and give them some time. It’s not that you’re alone here, but that don’t mean that you don’t get lonesome. It’s just not home! Too bad the nurses don’t have the extra time to spend. More nurses would make a difference all round. The powers that be should do some thinking on that, too.

  As I said, most nurses are really good, couldn’t ask for any better, but there are a few that aren’t likeable. Some of them that don’t earn their salt. I think I pretty well have those ones pegged. They are the ones that seem to look busy but don’t accomplish much. They don’t think that we residents pick up on things like that, but some of us do, and they don’t seem to care enough to listen, either. Every day you have to tell them how you like things done. It’s the same thing day after day. That gets annoying. It gets on a body’s nerves. I told one gal that it was like “Ground Hog Day”, the movie. You know the one with that Bill Murray guy, the Hollywood actor. Every day is always the same. They seem to listen, but they just don’t care to hear. You can just tell this isn’t their calling. They’re only here for the money. It’s sad really, because they just don’t have the personality for the work. Their hearts aren’t in it. A body can pick up on that pretty quick. They stand out in the crowd, so to speak.

  There are a few that are pretty bossy, too. Their way is the only way, it seems. It doesn’t matter how you like things done. They don’t mind telling you, either. I don’t think that is real kind of them. They tend to forget that we old folks have been doing things our way for a long time. You just can’t be trying to change someone at my age. They need to realize that they enjoy having things done the way they like it in their home, and so do we. After all, they’re working for us, and we didn’t get old, broken down, and busted just so they could have a job. We just got old, broken down, and busted. Now we require their help, and that is their job. Perhaps, someone should remind them of that.

  Generally speaking though, most of the PSWs are pretty good gals and real hard workers. Like I said, I have my favourites, and they probably have their favourite residents, too. Some of us are easier to care for and get along with than others. We all just need to be respectful and pleasant with each other and try to get along as best as we can, that’s all. Life should be like that in general, not just here.

  We see a lot of the RPNs, too. I call them the pill girls. They’re always out and about with their medication cart. They don’t seem to have much time to fuss with us, either. They bring us our pills and do treatments, as they call them, and then they seem to be off like the wind. They don’t have a minute to spare to have a cordial conversation with us.

  I feel sorry for them, I do. It doesn’t seem right that they don’t have proper time to get things done. It’s a serious job to keep all those medications in order. They don’t want to mess that up. It could be a catastrophe if the wrong pills were taken by the wrong resident.

  Those gals carry a heavy load. It seems to me that they shouldn’t have to be in such a hurry. There must be a way to get them some more time. It would improve things for us, as well. After all, we’re on the receiving end of the pill spoon. Most of those gals are pretty easy to get along with. I’ve found there are a couple who are lacking in the personality department, but that’s just life. You can’t be friends with everyone; you just have to learn to get along.

  We don’t see much of the RNs. I’m told that they are the supervisors and do paperwork mostly. We see them walking about once in a while checking up on the other nurses. There is one that comes around with the doctor every week. She doesn’t know much about us, other than what the PSWs and RPNs pass on. That’s what the doctor goes on unless you’re like me and can speak for yourself. I like to have my own say. There may come a time when I can’t, but for now I do my own bidding.

  I really like the doctor here. We get on quite well. Of course, he’s a jokester, too, not quiet and serious like some I’ve met. He’s not full of himself either, thinking he’s next to Godliness. The doc and me seem to have a good understanding between us. I don’t complain about things he can’t fix, and he doesn’t try to fix things that I don’t complain about. After all, I am old and there is no cure for that. I’m going to die sometime, and he can’t prevent it. As Ma used to say, it is what it is! You just have to accept what you cannot change.”

  Beth chuckles, “I’m quite sure that the doctor has his hands full with you, Gran. And the nurse’s, too, for that matter. I’m glad that you’ve gotten to know the staff here and get along well with them. I’m sure that’s a comfort to you. It must have been tough at first when everyone was still a stranger to you.”

  “It was, dear, but anyway, there’s no use going on about it. We get pretty good care here. Like I said, there are a few nurses that aren’t likeable, but the majority are real gems. I’m thankful to be able to still do for myself. I hope I’m gone before I can’t, and whenever I ring my call bell, I hope that it’s one of my “angels” that comes through my door to help. The “angels” don’t make this place feel like heaven, but they’re the ones that really make a difference. They make it bearable.”

  inside looking out

  “I guess, there’s not much left to tell since I sold my house. The truth of it all is, I don’t have much left in general. Time being one of those things. I’ve just made up my mind to hunker down here and wait it out. I’m not sure how much time I have left, but what I do know is that I’ve sure been fortunate to have had so many years already. Most folks aren’t as lucky as I have been in that regard. I suppose things aren’t so bad here if you can learn to take it all in stride. Everything seems to work out the way it’s supposed to in the end anyways. There’s no use fighting the inevitable.

  There surely are some very positive attributes about coming here. It made me downsize for one thing, and all the paperwork is signed and sealed. I got all my finalities worked out. They just have to come and get me when the time comes and put me in the box. The children don’t have any worries to take care of. It puts my mind at ease knowing they won’t be left with those burdens to bear. I was able to take care of all the arrangements myself. That was the first thing I did with all the proceeds from the sale of the house. I guess I should have taken care of it all years ago. It would have been cheaper, and I would have saved the tax. I didn’t have to pay it when Logan died. The powers that be are always finding new ways to get a hand out! Anyhow, it’s all been taken care of now.

  Looking back now, I know that I fussed somewhat when I first got here, but it was such a big adjustment for me. Even though I understand the need to be here, that didn’t make it a darn bit easier. It’s just really hard for us old folks to accept change. We seem to settle into a routine that is familiar and comfortable as we age, and any variation to that norm invades our comfort zone. It’s not that we want to be difficult or stubborn, but change leaves us feeling vulnerable, and that leads to us being fearful of the unknown. Let’s face it. Unless you walk a mile in our shoes, you’ll never be able to see things from our point of view. It’s very different here on the inside looking out!

  I was depressed when I moved here. I was still mourning Charity’s passing, and I was angry with myself over my clumsiness which brought about my change in circumstances. I knew there was just no way that I could live at home alone with a broken arm and shoulder, and I didn’t want to impose on my children for long term. My future was very uncertain at that particular time. The doctors weren’t convinced that I would regain full use of my arm, and even though I knew in my head that this was the best choice, my heart didn’t agree, and I longed to go home to my little house in the country. I was dealing with feelings of grief and loss, and that turned into depression. I had lost my independence. I had lost most of my possessions. I had lost my familiar lifestyle, and I had lost control of my life in general. My spirits were low,
indeed.

  You have to remember that near on eighty-six years I was the captain of the ship, and then I felt like I was lost at sea without a compass. I was no longer in charge of my own destiny, and it didn’t make matters better when I figured out that this new lifestyle I found myself living was dominated by routine. I’ve lived most of my life by routine, but it was my own routine. Not someone else’s. And there’s a routine in place here for everything, and everyone is supposed to fit into that routine. It’s pretty near impossible to get so many people to adhere to such a strict regime. I guess here’s like any household, though. They have to set things up in a way so everything gets done, and in a timely fashion.

  Structure is what we used to call it. Things run smoother with some form of structure. It seems everything is on a time frame here from meals, to bathing, to cleaning. It is comforting to know that meals are always at the same time- breakfast at 8:00am, lunch is at 12:00pm, and supper is at 5:00pm. We ate pretty much at the same times at home. Of course, after Logan died I got used to eating a little something whenever I was hungry. I didn’t really cook meals much after he passed, not unless I was expecting company to drop in. I must admit, it is kind of nice to have my meals made for me. And no dishes! That’s the real bonus.